


this is our surrender to the garden, to the weeds

by missveils (Missveils)



Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (im offended that's not a registered tag!), M/M, Panic Attacks, Tenderness, Undressing, Vallaslin (Dragon Age), Well of Sorrows (Dragon Age), reverential undressing, vallaslin removal, well of sorrows voices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missveils/pseuds/missveils
Summary: what if.... crestwood scene. but gay and tender.(no breakup in this one, lads)
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Male Lavellan, Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Solas
Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694902
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	this is our surrender to the garden, to the weeds

**Author's Note:**

> look, i know they got to skyhold from the temple through an eluvian. but i remembered this when i finished writing. so just imagine they have to do the whole trip back to skyhold. morrigan’s eluvian was broken bc corypheus. whatever.

“I need to go for a walk.” 

“Dáire, it’s literally about to rain.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

His sister calls after him as he stands and walks into the trees. Several times. 

He walks fast but treads lightly. He knows his sister could still track him easily if she wanted, but he hopes she will not follow this time. 

Ever since they walked out of the Temple of Mythal, the voices have been ceaseless. When they are not speaking over each other, they are screaming, with no way to stop him. In the last two days, Dáire has barely been able to sleep. 

Right now he just wants to finally get to Skyhold and close all curtains to his room and just lie there in silence. Maybe then they would be silent, or at least manageable. If he could at least just be with Solas… 

It didn’t help that he had not spoken a word to him since the Vir Abelasan. It also did not help that every time he tried to talk to him, the voices seemed to scream louder. Like someone screaming in pain but who will not tell you which bone is broken. 

And Ellara was right. 

It is raining. 

Dáire still makes his way through the trees. He doesn’t have a destination. But the sound of the storm drowns out the voices and the warm summer rain soaking his clothes is comforting. 

Lightning flashes across the sky. Dáire stops and closes his eyes, waiting for thunder, but is met by another collective scream from the voices. Holding his head in his hands, he falls to his knees.

“Just tell me what you want!”

They waver for a second as if trying, but the yelling continues. Dáire opens his eyes just to see a shadow off the corner of his vision, between the trees.

Maybe this time they are trying to warn him. 

He gets up, feet and pants covered in mud, and starts running. 

He makes out some of the words they’re saying in ancient elven: Run. You’re in danger. You will be hurt.

They are not very helpful, as he still does not know what he’s running from. Or if he should be running at all. The storm, the thunder, the voices, the trees zooming past him. It is too much, and it feels like he is just running following an instinct, trying to run away from the voices rather than… whatever this is. 

His foot catches on a root and he falls, face-first into the mud. He pulls himself up, breathing heavily.

And sees the shadow through the trees again. 

He is ready to stop running and face it but the voices coax him to stand and run. 

And run. 

And-

He stops on his tracks as he comes face to face with a wolf. Dark, billowing fur. Impossibly big. 

His jaws open and Dáire closes his eyes, awaiting the tear of the teeth on his skin. 

He feels, instead, two warm hands on his shoulders. 

“Dáire! Dáire open your eyes. You still belong to yourself, no matter what they tell you.”

When he opens his eyes, he sees Solas, holding him, a concerned expression on his face. Dáire looks over his shoulder, trying to find the wolf, and then tries to turn around to look behind his own back. 

“No, Dáire. There is just us here. Please, look with your own eyes. Look at me.”

When he does, the voices scream again, but Dáire fixes his eyes on Solas’, his arms shaking. 

“Good.” Solas lets go of his shoulders and wraps his arms around them instead. “Now look past me, and tell me what you see.”

Resting his chin on his shoulder, Dáire looks at the forest. In the darkness of the storm, a sudden flash of light far away, barely visible between the trees. 

“Lightning.” His voice sounds hoarse.

“Good. Now tell something you are thinking. One of your own thoughts.”

Dáire stays silent for a few seconds, as his thoughts become clearer. 

“Ellara taught me how to count the seconds between lightning and thunder to know how close they are falling.” 

“Can you do that now?”

Dáire nods. Solas steps back and holds his hand, leading him onwards as he counts out loud. He leads him to a small group of rocks off the side of the forest. Not really a cave, but big enough to shelter them from the rain. Dáire sits next to him, and rests his head on his shoulder, counting as the storm slowly recedes and the lightning falls further away. 

“I cannot hear them anymore.”

“You will have to learn to push their thoughts under yours when you don’t need them.” He is silent for a moment. When he talks again, his voice is harder than before. “You should not have drunk from the Vir Abelasan. I begged you not to.”

“Solas…”

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god.”

“You… You don’t even believe in them. I don’t know what to believe after what we saw at the Temple. So, what does it matter?”

“I don’t believe that they were gods, but I believe that they existed. If not gods, then mages, or spirits. And you are bound to one of them now. Anything you do will be for her, whether you know it or not.”

He sounds incredibly sad now. 

“This is clearly important to you. Is that why you haven’t talked to me since we left the Temple?”

“And because you seemed to be in pain whenever someone made a sound near you.” He stayed silent, watching the rain drip from the rocks in front of them. “Why did you offer yourself so readily for it? Was it for the power?”

The reply comes to Dáire faster than he was expecting:

“Because it was what I had to do to be able to save everyone. All other options were worse than this.”

Solas does not reply, but he feels him tense up at his response. One of his arms moves around his shoulder and holds him close, tightly. In silence, they watch the rain stop, and the evening sun glow through the leaves. 

“There is a river nearby. We should at least wash the mud off your face and hair.”

Dáire touches his face, suddenly aware of the mud now caked and solidified on his skin. He rubs it with the palm of his hand and laughs. 

Solas holds his hand as they walk towards the river. It’s not often that he is the one to reach for his hand, and it has happened twice today. Dáire entwines his fingers with his. Solas tightens his hold.

The river runs wide and shallow and slow in here. Dáire walks in, knee-deep, welcoming the cool water. He kneels on the river to wash his face, rubbing the mud off his cheeks. 

Solas walks into the river and kneels behind him. Dáire feels cold water and then his fingers on his hair. He carefully washes the mud from his hair and slowly undoes the knots in it with his fingers. Dáire closes his eyes as he works, and he could fall asleep right there. With the burbling of the river, the warmth of the summer sunset, the coolness of the river, and the blessed silence in his head. 

“Before, you said you no longer knew what to believe. You said something like that before we went to the Temple… About the ancient elven gods not being here.”

One of his hands is still running over his hair, the other one resting on the spot between his neck and his shoulder, his thumb resting at the back of his neck. 

“When we were talking about the Dread Wolf…” Dáire’s voice comes soft and mellow. “I said that maybe what he did was not so simple. That we could not say for sure it was something bad. That the gods are not here anymore to hear us, but the world used to be theirs and he gave it to us. Maybe there is more to it now, knowing what we saw at the Temple. Maybe he’s not here to listen to our prayers either…”

As he speaks, Solas stands and walks around him, to kneel in front of him, cupping Dáire’s cheek in his hand. 

“Maybe there is more truth on that than you think… Dáire, there is something I wish to tell you. The truth.”

He goes silent after that, running his thumb over his cheek. Dáire reaches out to rest his hand on Solas’ cheek too. 

“Yes?”

He breaks eye contact, ever so slightly, looking down at his cheeks, rather than his eyes.

“Your face. The vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things I have discovered what those marks mean.”

“They honor the elven gods.”

“They do now. And they did back in the time of Ancient Arlathan, but in a different way. A noble would mark his slaves with the symbol of the gods he worshipped.”

Dáire looks into his eyes. He does not think Solas would lie to him, but he is not sure if this is all there is to it. He runs his thumb again over Solas’ cheek. 

“Is this… Is this why you don’t have any?”

“Yes.”

Trying to get Solas to speak about his past had always been difficult. Dáire lowers his eyes.

“Why tell me now?”

“Because, after all that has happened, after seeing the memories of the slaves branded against their will in honor of a god for the rest of their lives… You deserve better than that. You are already bound to Mythal. You don’t have to have her brand on your face.”

“I don’t _have_ to?”

“I know a spell. I can remove the vallaslin, if you wish.”

“I…”

A million thoughts reel on Dáire’s head. 

The days spent meditating and purifying. 

The pain, as the hours passed and the Keeper applied the lines with care and reverence. 

Ellara embracing him with pride, pressing her forehead to his, the branches meeting their copy on each other. 

But also Ellara’s anger at the Temple of Mythal, her faith reinforced while his wavered. 

And the voices in his head. In there forever. Pulling and pushing, whispering into his ear. Muttering secrets and showing him visions he does not want to see. 

And Solas deciding not to get his vallaslin. Or having his removed. There are many things about his past Dáire wants to ask, but he also knows he will not tell him.

“Dáire.” His voice brings him back to reality. “You do not have to decide now. You do not have to agree to this at all. I’m sorry.”

He stands and heads towards the river bank. Dáire immediately stands too and holds his arm. When he turns to face him, Dáire holds his hands and brings them up to his face. 

“Do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am bound to Mythal now. Knowing this, knowing… what I saw at the Temple, I don’t think I can be comfortable with the vallaslin right now. It’s… It’s a small rebellion, I guess.” 

Solas smiles and nods. He places his hands on Dáire’s forehead. 

He closes his eyes. 

It does not hurt. As Solas runs his hands down his face, a faint light glows behind his eyelids. It feels cold like the water lapping at their knees. 

When it’s over, Dáire opens his eyes, but resists looking at his reflection in the water. Rather, he looks at Solas, who is now staring at him with a fondness he has never seen before. 

Knowing it’s not over, Dáire reaches to undo the laces of his shirt, but Solas’ hands reach for them. 

They have undressed each other many times before, but this time it’s different. Solas undoes the knots on his shirt slowly. He slides the wet shirt it off his shoulders with reverence and carefully lays it on the river bank, over dry, sunlit stones. He does the same with his undershirt, with his pants. It feels almost like a ritual. 

Slowly, his hands trace the lines over his chest, his back, his legs, his arms, glowing as the lines disappear under his fingers. Yet he also traces the rivers of his veins on his arms, the scars on his chest, imaginary lines between his freckles. 

“Ar lasa mala revas.”

You are now free. 

Dáire looks up at him and reaches for his face with his hands again. On his tiptoes, he reaches to kiss him, as Solas wraps his arms around his waist. 

Without breaking the kiss, Dáire reaches for the hem of Solas’ shirt. Slowly, he also starts to undress him. 

With as much reverence. With far more unsteady fingers. 

Later, as they lie on their warm clothes on the riverbank, Solas looks up at the sky, as the first stars start to show themselves.

“We should head back to the camp.”

Dáire shakes his head, eyes half-closed. 

“I don’t want to go back. Not now. I want to be with you. I don’t know how much time we will have together before this is all over.”

Solas gets up and starts to get dressed. 

“I will go back to tell them you are okay. And that we’ll make out way back to Skyhold on our own.”

Dáire’s face lights up. “There is nothing I would want more.”

“Your sister is not going to be happy. I don’t look forward to it.” He kisses his forehead. “Wait for me here. I will be back soon.”

Dáire throws his arms around his neck, keeping him closer a little longer.

“I will wait. Come back soon.”

As Solas’ steps fade into the forest, Dáire looks up at the sky. 

The voices are a soft murmur at the back of his head. The sound of ocean waves. Some of them are louder than others, and they rise to meet him as if he was sleeping at the edge of the water. He tries to remember what he did before.

_Tell me what you see._

“The stars. Constellations Eluvia and Solium.”

_Now tell something you are thinking. One of your own thoughts._

“I love him.”

_One of your own thoughts._

“I love him.”

**Author's Note:**

> *listens to iron & wine talking to fog on repeat* *listens to iron & wine wade across the water on repeat*
> 
> Dáire Lavellan is @littlegumshoe's (on tumblr) who also made this art inspired by the fic


End file.
